


Drown me sweetly

by Caivallon



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 16:43:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15174983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caivallon/pseuds/Caivallon
Summary: The young man is indeed awake when Jon enters the room, turns his head even before he has a chance to knock softly on the door frame and announce his presence. A shock of wild curls falls over his forehead and spreads over the pillow; they are a soft reddish-blond colour but against his skin they look almost dark.And they don’t do anything to hide the expression in his eyes that remind Jon of the ocean during a thunderstorm.





	Drown me sweetly

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [**1988 trope bingo** ](https://ablackhawkssummer.tumblr.com/). Because I always wanted to write a mermaid au.  
>  So this is my version...or at least a glimpse. But I'm actually thinking about writing the whole story. I hope you like it. 
> 
> The lovely [ **allthebros** ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthebros/pseuds/allthebros) did a quick but amazing beta job, thank you so much again! 
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://de.tinypic.com?ref=28v3sih)  
> 

**Drown me sweetly**

 

“Oh, and trauma asked for your counsel, after you’re done with rounds.”

“Trauma?” Jon raises his eyebrows while filling his coffee mug for the second time. Usually that’s never a good thing. “Why didn’t you say say so earlier?”

“It’s not an emergency anymore...suicide attempt. Came in on saturday morning. They have everything under control but apparently he’s—” Sash stops. “He’s special.” 

Jon frowns. He doesn’t like that term and Sash knows. If she still uses it this one must really be special. 

“It’s a young men or a boy. He couldn’t tell them his age...or his name. They found him at Middle Cove beach, barely alive. Naked, no clothes, hypothermic, Lost a lot of blood. But no physical harm except for some strange cuts.”

“He slashed his wrists?” The coffee is strong and hot, slightly too bitter for his liking. It makes him shiver. 

“I wouldn’t have said _strange_ if he’d just opened his arteries.” That Sash doesn’t roll her eyes is probably the most alarming fact. Shows him how uncomfortable she is about this patient, so he smiles apologetically for one short second before stepping closer to her and taking the folder. 

He shivers again when he looks at the pictures. Sometimes he thinks it will never not disturb him. Sometimes he thinks it shouldn’t anymore. 

(And sometimes he thinks this thought should disturb him even more.) 

___

It’s late afternoon when he finally has time to go over to the main building. 

“You’re coming to see Ariel?” 

Jon bites his tongue: he knows that everyone has nicknames for patients, knows that he can’t do anything about it, but that doesn’t stop him from hating it. 

This time he doesn’t comment on it, just nods curtly as he follows the nurse into the room where the young man sleeps. The curtain of the window is pulled back so he can be monitored from the counter. 

At first, Jon thinks the man is _dead_. The arms lying on the duvet are so pale that he does a double take to the heartlines on the screen. Very low but steady. 

“If he’s asleep I’m coming back down later.” 

He usually prefers not watching patients before meeting them, always hates these rooms that leave no privacy, always feels uncomfortable standing outside, peering in—as if he’s judging. Stealing something from them they have no choice but to give to him. 

“No need. He’s awake.” 

“How do you know?“

“Because he has neither slept nor eaten since they brought him in.” 

___

The young man is indeed awake when Jon enters the room, turns his head even before he has a chance to knock softly on the door frame and announce his presence. 

A shock of wild curls falls over his forehead and spreads over the pillow; they are a soft reddish-blond colour but against his skin they look almost dark. 

And they don’t do anything to hide the expression in his eyes that remind Jon of the ocean during a thunderstorm. Deep and dangerous. Deadly. 

_Dead_. 

In them: nothing and everything hidden. No joy, no hope. But sadness. _Knowledge_. 

It takes him a second to control the smile on his face, to not let it slip and flinch back because— _those eyes_. 

But Jon is good at his job, he’s a professional. He can pull himself together and focus. So he moves closer, with careful but firm steps.

“Hi, I’m Jonathan.”

“You’re the _shrink_.” The voice is raw and edgy like the gravel on the shore where they found him, as if it pains him to form words. 

“I’d prefer psychologist, but most of all I’d prefer Jonathan or Jon.” 

The young man huffs. His eyes linger on Jon like a heavy weight. As if Jon is an anchor that could drag him down. And for one short moment there is almost a glimmer of hope. As if he wants this even. 

“Can you help me to get out of here, Jonathan?” Again, no emotion: neither in his gaze nor his words.  
It’s maybe one of the most devastating things he’s ever witnessed. Even more than the pictures he’s seen in the man’s file. 

Jon may not have dozens of years of experience but he has treated enough suicidal patients before to know this is different. This young man is nothing like them and he can’t even explain why but it both intrigues and frightens him more than probably any other patient before. 

“I hope I can,” he answers, wanting to step closer but reluctant in a way that confuses him. He’s not someone who’s scared of patients, especially not ones who were found almost bloodless and on the verge of dying just two days ago. Ones that are too manic to even sleep and eat. “I will try my best, but I need your help.”

It takes the young man ages to nod—probably because of the bandage around his throat and neck. Or probably because he is not sure if Jon deserves his trust.

“Do you remember how you got here?” 

“No...I don’t, I—there was nothing but pain when I woke up, so much pain and then people. All around me.” The young man swallows dryly, a gesture that makes him grimace and grasp for the sides of his throat (where the wounds are; Jon can still see them in front of his eyes.) It must hurt like hell. 

“The doctors. You were hypothermic and suffered severe blood loss. They saved your life.” 

Suddenly the blue eyes bore into him, fiery and sharp with anger and despair like the razors that cut his wounds. “They didn’t! They brought me here and—I don’t belong here, Jonathan.” 

And just as suddenly his eyes are dull again; appearing really extinct and dead now that Jon has seen the light of emotions hidden inside. 

‘ _Where do you belong. Why did you walk into the water on a January evening. Why did you torture yourself by carving gills into your throat_.’ But he doesn’t ask these questions, it’s too early. 

Instead he says, “I know. I mean I don’t, but I want to. I want you to make me understand.”

“Can you help me get out of here, Jonathan? Somewhere else? Where I can see the ocean? I—need it. I will die without it.” There is no pleading in his voice, only in his words: weak with the strong belief that this is plain utter truth. In the fingers that claw into the thin blanket that covers his lower body: the despair of someone who doesn't want to die. 

“I will sign you over to my ward, can’t make a promise about the ocean view, but if your doctors agree and you start eating, then we can take a walk in the yard tomorrow afternoon. Not only can you see the ocean from there, you can also smell it.” 

For the fraction of a second Jon thinks he can almost see a smile, although he knows it’s impossible.  
But the young man’s eyes widen with relief and the tension in his hands ceases at least a little. Then he turns away without a word of gratitude and goodbye. He rolls over to the side to face the real window that gives way to the melancholy of harbour bay. Curls fall back over his face so that Jon cannot even see the side of it anymore. 

He only realizes that he stayed way longer than appropriate after their conversation was finished, because his lungs start to ache, to feel as if they are about to collapse. Only realizes it because he has to inhale with an abrupt and loud sound. 

A sound that doesn’t even make the young man flinch—as if he was listening to Jon all the time, aware of his presence like a wild animal: alert and anxious, shy and scenting. But he doesn’t turn back to him again, doesn’t even pull his blanket higher to cover the naked, vulnerable skin of his arms and neck. Either too scared or too _indifferent_. 

It doesn’t change the fact that Jon feels like he’s overstepping, like he’s judging and stealing...crossing a border he had promised himself he’d never even approach. 

Finally, he manages to tear himself away (it’s almost as painful as getting oxygen into his lungs again) and leaves. 

It’s hard. 

___

But it’s even harder to forget those eyes. 

He thinks about them even later that night, when he’s at home. 

Those blue eyes. So cool, so empty. So broken. They tear him apart. 

Jon is good at his job, he knows how to put people together. How to solve the puzzle of their minds. How to mend the cracks in their souls. 

(But he has no idea how to put himself together.) 

 

___

Thank you for reading ♥


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